


Serving the Empire

by ice_evanesco, OrphanText



Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Collars, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_evanesco/pseuds/ice_evanesco, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrphanText/pseuds/OrphanText
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mallory suffers the fallout of Skyfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serving the Empire

**Author's Note:**

> It was something an idea that stuck because I am a horrible, horrible person, upon which I started bugging ice and she bugged me back and we bugged each other until it was completed. I'm glad its half done.

When you have attended one of the Six’s budget meetings, you have, in a manner of speaking, attended them all. Why they believed it efficient to hold it as regularly as it was held was a subject that has crossed everyone’s mind, but remains one that is never mentioned. There isn’t so much of productive discussion, than the usual office politics when people couldn’t tamp down on their desire to run for a reality show. Which was the usual, really.

 

He was dozing discreetly through just another one of those domestic dramas when Tanner had shifted slightly from his position next to him. Now, it could be interesting, seeing as the man had the strange ability to be as still as a statue through every single meeting, and he only ever moved when something happened, like an emergency, or if his pen ran out of ink and it irked him. And of course, just as it drew Mallory’s attention, it drew the interest-starved attentions of the officials nearest to them. No one could ever feign that much enthusiasm for a man who loved the sound of his own voice and a topic about cutting costs by installing automatic sensor lights and taps in the bathrooms, and perhaps just a little more for how to secure part of that budget for their own respective departments, and the prospective of a meeting called to end early.

 

He gave them a hard stare - Tanner’s business was his business and they could do very well to return to their daily scene of departmental cattle prodding, or if that was too exciting, doodling on napkins with the cheap ballpoints that were always present at every single meeting. Only when everyone looked away again as is the English code of avoiding eye contact with others whenever possible did he look down at the phone that Tanner had pushed into his hands, and promptly felt more awake than when someone had accidentally set off the sprinkler system in Q branch with him still standing in conversation with their branch head.

 

Well then.

  
  
This, he had been expecting for quite a long time ago and had been thinking it overdue, but it didn’t irk him any less that it would arrive in the middle of a meeting (albeit a budget meeting) in a blatant display of power. Expectations and prediction did not always indicate full control of a situation, but he wished that it had. Two texts from an unknown number, and there was really just one man in the whole of Britain who could make such demands of the head of Section Six. The phone buzzed in his hands again, a new text message flashing on the screen impatiently.

 

_Two minutes._

He looked up to find Tanner, always the office’s mother hen, darting him questioning looks, and slanting him an enquiry with his eyebrows. He tapped on the armrest twice, and Tanner nodded, understanding implicitly what to do.

 

That was precisely what made Tanner such a powerful person in his own right. He understood the needs and desires of those around him almost impeccably. Little wonder that two heads of MI6 had made him their right hand man. He knew them well enough that he could even act, wielding their authority,  and have it be the appropriate response. Despite that, he rarely overstepped his bounds.

 

Tanner stood and smiled, "I'm afraid this meeting has run into overtime. M has a prior engagement that simply cannot be postponed." (Beneath the desk lies his tablet, and Mallory sees that his high score on Flappy Bird was 45.)

 

The other branch heads looked at their wristwatches, but none of them made any comment.

 

Mallory stood, saying crisply, "Apologies, gentlemen. All other possible amendments will be discussed in the next quarterly meeting. If you will excuse me."

 

Q pressed a button, and the blackout lifted, everyone's laptops beeping with messages and emails as the glass walls of the meeting room turned from opaque to clear.

 

"Medical Branch, please remain." Q said, staring at his laptop. "Bond is on his way back."

 

Mallory rolled his eyes heavenward as he headed out. As is always the wise decision when double-oh seven is involved in anything.

 

He hurried (with style) out of the building, managing to shake off Tanner  just as a sleek, unmarked black car rolled up towards him. Not wanting to draw anymore unnecessary attention towards himself, particularly since he knew that Q’s cameras covered the area, he got into the car obediently and subsequently found himself squashed between two rather pleasant looking, if slightly bulky and rather stony-faced individuals who wore silence like a physical armour. God forbid this be comfortable for him at all, and to think that men at certain positions would be above such theatrics.

 

Typically, one would agree that such dramatic tactics should be reserved and left only for the cinema screen, what with the black cars, and the tangible silence in the car with what could only be bodyguards to prevent him from running away (unnecessary, and _he_ knew it), not because it was already so overplayed in movies and books, and also because that made it rather predictable and therefore silly when emulated in real life–oh, fine, yes. He was intimidated by these terribly dramatic tactics. Not because of what was happening, but because of who was behind it. And seeing as this was all put on solely for his benefit, he might as well show some appreciation for _his_ efforts, sweat a little as intended, and wonder if it would end just as dramatically as him making it onto the ‘Missing Persons’ list, and then whatever would Tanner say?

 

Not much, knowing the discretion of the other man.

 

He certainly would not have expected _him_ to let the major cock-up that was Skyfall go, not when they had created chaos in _his_ territory, Britain, and in _his_ parliament. That was the least of it. He could overlook all that, but the death of _his_ mentor, the death of M... ?

 

He was jostled out of his thoughts as the car pulled up before an unfortunately familiar enough building. Mallory exited the car, his accompanying bodyguards following a little too close for comfort despite a glare from him, and was quickly herded inside without fanfare.

 

In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity,  is the vital thing.

 

Mallory gave a wry smile at the memory of a quote from Wilde, and continued walking down the maze of corridors. Well, it seemed as though the man he was here to see believed in that, considering the artfully dimmed corridors and the way the walk was punctuated by the single door, large and imposing. The guards left him there.

 

Surely they didn't expect him to _knock_. Good heavens, this was actually getting childish.

 

Mallory contemplated the carvings on the door, and just when he realised that it depicted the temptation of Eve, the door was opened by Mycroft's assistant, the charming "Anthea". Or as Mallory knew her, 002.

 

"Sir, Mr Holmes has been expecting you." She said in a smooth, quiet voice. Her pretty face held the suggestion of a smile. Mallory gave her a nod, and stepped into the room.

 

His footsteps were hushed by the thick carpeting beneath his feet, the room spacious, luxuriously decorated in tones of warm browns and reds. _He_ was sitting in one of the few comfortable looking chairs, and looked up as Mallory walked in, setting aside a folder onto a small stack of papers on the small table. And of course the gesture was calculated to draw Mallory’s eye to the papers, which were a series of reports covering the damage done during the Skyfall incident, the financial costs incurred, and so on. Designed to unsettle and cause Mallory unease, no doubt. A simple tactic, but it was working well.

 

“Do take a seat, Mallory,” the man smiled benignly, sitting back and steepling his fingers, elbows on the armrests. “There is no need to remain standing on my behalf.”

 

There was a beat of silence, when neither of them moved, before Mallory conceded, moving to settle in a rather uncomfortable chair, back ramrod straight, perching on the edge of the very hard seat.

 

Mycroft Holmes only smiled wider, a tinge of smug satisfaction at the edge of a deceptively friendly smile, and Mallory vaguely thought of a shark who had scented and secured its prey, but was in no hurry to finish off the kill.

 

“Drink, perhaps?” Mycroft turned to the side for a readily empty glass sitting next to a bottle of whisky. And perhaps it was the calculated, measured movements, or the far too stifling environment that Mallory had found it in himself to lean forwards to glare at the man.

 

“I’m afraid that I will have to decline,” he enunciated word by careful word, spitting it out at Holmes, as though rudeness would make that horrid smile crack or slip. “I am certain that you did not call me here on leisure, so why not cut to business? You will find that I am a very straight-forward man, as your research would have informed you.”

 

To his chagrin, Mycroft ignored him, pouring out a measure of whisky into both glasses, the soft clinking as he did so in careful, measured motions the only company to the stifling silence in the room for.

 

“Nothing quite as serious,” Mycroft murmured, and aimed a chastising look at him, before handing him one of the whisky glasses. “You are a guest.”

 

“I am certain that we both are aware of the truth,” Mallory clutched the glass in one hand with a tight smile, aware that he was no more a guest than a prisoner, and pointedly doesn’t drink.

 

Mycroft's smile appeared again. If anything, he only seemed that much more amused at Mallory's defiance. "Come now, surely you cannot be thinking that I have poisoned it?”

 

"I don't presume to know your purpose, Mr Holmes." Mallory said, running his thumb along the rim of the shot glass, allowing the sense of cold glass against skin to anchor him. "But if I may attempt a shot in the dark, I would imagine that it pertains to Skyfall."

 

Mycroft only directed a patient look over the glass in his hand, then drew in a long suffering sigh, and moved to set it down. When he looked back again, Mallory swallowed against the sensation of having the full, very much present attention of a Holmes fall on him with absolutely nothing to distract.

 

"You are aware of the costs incurred?"

 

Mallory thought, somewhat resentfully, that had M survived, Mycroft Holmes would never have questioned her, or MI6 in such a manner. Although political games were played throughout the organization, and he had himself participated in a choice few, nothing prepared him for Holmes, who didn't play at all.

 

But now, whilst Holmes still believed in the integrity of the organisation, and felt that the existence of the organisation was justified, he felt that Mallory as M was somewhat... redundant.

 

Hence the need for this session, to establish a firm pecking order. Time-consuming, but necessary.

 

“The financial reports— “

 

“A very interesting read, but of little interest.” Mycroft cut through Mallory’s words cleanly, dismissively. “It is myopic to assume that mere numbers and figures are the crux of the issue. I'm not talking about finance, I'm talking about the morale of the organization, and the damage to its reputation. You are aware of how this will affect the organization’s standing with the public and the media if word gets out?”

 

“The previous M would have– “ Mallory drew in a breath.

 

“The previous M is dead.” The tone of finality shut Mallory up, sucked the air out of the room, left a hollow silence behind.

 

The previous M would have gone to any lengths and any means necessary to get the objective done. The previous M would raze the world to the ground and not blink or falter in the retaliation of the backlash.

 

There were many things that the previous M would have done, and she was dead.

 

Not for the first time, Mallory wished that there were someone else who could have taken up the mantle instead, knowing far too well that he was still too young, a little too green to be playing on the same board that Mycroft was on. He had done his fair share of swimming with the sharks (sometimes literally), but Mycroft Holmes superseded simple political games, and the players on the board.

 

Mycroft Holmes created the board, and the rules by which all his colleagues played their little chess games. By his words and his command, he could erase the game, the players, and even upset the board.

 

It was therefore in Mallory’s great interest that Mycroft not upset the board while he was still on it, nor to be erased himself.

 

“This will not happen again,” Mallory said around a tight throat. “Sir.”

 

“Making promises that you cannot keep is a bad habit to fall into, Mallory.” Mycroft murmured, sipping his drink. "It's the very definition of a dishonest politician."

 

"In that case, what will you have me do?" Mallory asked through clenched teeth.

 

"That, my dear man, is an interesting question." Mycroft set down his glass, and when he smiled, Mallory knew he had been played.

 

He remained still as Mycroft stood smoothly with the barest rustle of cloth, and walked with graceful steps around the table to Mallory, forcing Mallory to look up at him with the difference in their height now.

 

“I do not intend to punish you,” Mycroft murmured, his voice going quieter, and Mallory fought not to flinch as he reached for him with manicured fingers, on hands that a small part of him had admired wrapped around the whisky glass, and that a larger part of him imagined was drenched in blood. “You wound me, Gareth. You need not be afraid. I simply wish to remind you of your place.”

 

Mallory swallowed at the light touch against his throat, and met Mycroft’s gaze as evenly as he could, even as the man hooked a finger into his tie, tugging lightly. Satisfied with whatever he saw in Mallory’s expression, Mycroft turned slightly, without taking his eyes off him. “Anthea, if you please?”

 

“Sir.” There was the neat, quiet clickings of Anthea’s heels, and then she was there, a black box held in both hands which she offered to Mycroft, not once glancing at Mallory, her expression politely giving nothing away.

 

“The heads want accountability. They want to see someone shoulder the blame and the responsibility, and they want to see justice served for that.” Mycroft flicked open the lock on the box, and lifted the cover. “Of course, nothing quite so extreme as losing you your job. I am aware that you have children, and an ex-wife. I am, however, also aware of your service to the country, and of your contributions to Section Six.” The man seemed to contemplate whatever was in the box for a little while. “So I have taken this matter into my own hands, instead of having them met out what they think you rightfully deserve. I do hope that you will not mind my interfering, and the method of execution.” He smiled. “I think you will find it apt.”

 

“Sir,” Mallory said, voice more unsteady than he would have liked, but whatever it was that he had wanted to say next was forgotten, his attention now entirely on the object that Mycroft was holding in both hands.

 

Held innocently between deceptively gentle hands was a collar, made of leather from what he could see, discreetly tasteful with a simple ring in the front for attachment to a leash.

 

“I’m sure you’re used to it by now, either way,” Mycroft Holmes was saying brightly.

 

* * *

 

 

“M,” came the distressingly familiar baritone from behind him, the voice holding just the barest hint of amusement.

 

He turned, posture stiff, expression completely blank. “How can I help you, double-oh-seven?”

 

“I was just curious,” the smirk on Bond’s face was entirely uncalled for, and Mallory had the vicious urge to pile him with paperwork just to wipe it off his face. “If what Q said was true. Forgive my curiosity.”

 

“Apologies, Sir.” Q said, completely unrepentant from Bond’s side, a tablet tucked under the young man’s arm. “He barged into my office when I was just clearing the surveillance.”

 

“Now that you’ve ascertained for yourselves,” M sniffed. “No work to do, Quartermaster? No criminals to track down to bring before the law?”

 

“Double-oh-seven had very kindly taken the maintenance of my well-being upon himself, and had despite my very vocal disagreements forced me on a lunch break.” The quartermaster of MI6 crouched down, hand extended. “I shall endeavour to keep an eye out for and to preempt his ulterior motives in the future. Hello, you little creatures.”

 

The fat creatures in question immediately crowded around the friendly hand, jostling each other to nose at Q, tongues lolling out of their mouths and wagging their tails as though their lives depended on it, and drew a smile out of the usually stern quartermaster as he allowed them to lick and nip at his fingers in greeting, before giving each a very firm petting.

 

“Another day doing the Queen’s work, Sir,” Bond murmured, glancing down at the two corgis, and then back up at Mallory who now had to untangle their leashes, eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth.

 

“For England,” Mallory gritted his teeth. “For England.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the London Olympics where the Queen made an appearance herself with her super kawaii corgis, when I already had the idea of having someone being collared to the crown. Bond had been there, so he knows that those kawaii dogs belong to the Queen. It was just common sense to put everything together to make this.
> 
> This is the not so serious version because I have a very bad habit of liking to mess up everyone's expectations. There'll be a more serious version that will come later.


End file.
